


BBCSH 'Superstition' (continued): 'Touch Wood'  [PG-13]

by tigersilver



Series: Superstition [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 2/3(?) <br/>And this is a 'Bit' and there will be also a Piece (Peace?) <br/>Forgive the unforgiveable punner in advance, plz. <br/>Oh, yes...summary. Hmm, ah. John believes in everyday magic and Sherlock believes in John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH 'Superstition' (continued): 'Touch Wood'  [PG-13]

And a little Bit more....

  
  


II

John touches wood as Sherlock touches wood: in passing, often, not necessarily thinking about it. Fingertips trailing over furniture, familiar and not; a passing questing twiggy limb from a tree or shrub in a park brushing by one’s hair or collar, the inert chill of hardwood flooring beneath flexing bared toes. And not to forget paper pulp in books and newsprint, common enough despite the preponderance of handheld electronic devices. But Sherlock touches the more dangerous varieties as well: gun butts, sometimes, shaped of oak or mahogany. Sword-canes, even; wicked sharp death disguised by high polished ebony. Brolly handles, carved of yellow-lacquered pine. 

It’s so easy and simple-minded. One has to _think_. 

On no particular day out of many, and abruptly, with every touch to every arcane flora-based thing Sherlock inhales and lets his weary lids close for the barest moment. Steadies himself and takes a mental breather to actively wish his John _good fortune._ For… can not a ‘knock’ take the semblance of the merest whispering fingerhold on a flimsy receipt, a faded article? May it not be his most white-knuckled, fierce grip as he grapples an outmoded rifle away from a surprise opponent?   _Wood, wood, touch wood, wishes great and wishes good._ And John, on his end, thinking or no (he’s an Englishman, born and bred), turns and sends the smoke-scented cloud of luck back along cosmic conduit rails to Sherlock. Magnified tenfold; no, a hundred. 

It’s a primitive form of recycling, really, touching wood, and John always grins when he stops to think what he’s _really_ doing. It’s so ridiculous and Sherlock will likely never know, will he? It’s silly; it’s something far too minor to relate when they finally do catch up—and they will have the opportunity to catch up one fine day, or so John believes. But it’s all fine. Fine, fine and it feels good and that’s what matters. He’s warm inside his belly when he imagines the world as a great tangled forest, made up of the living green wood overlaying the dead that props it.  Knows instinctively, sure as his feet touch ground, that with every bit of that wondrously malleable matter he handles in passing all the luck he’s generating will instantly telegraph to Sherlock one way or another.  Wouldn’t have it any other way, really. 

But. It’s a bit like magic…everyday magic. 

Everyday magic: the art and enchantment of home and heath. Small charms. Sherlock, as homeless now as any of his old Irregulars, seldom dines and then always alone, but when he does he ensures never to cross his used cutlery. He wouldn’t dream of it (Mummy raised him) but still. Goes without saying. It’s a small thing and he’s no patience for such fancies but for John’s sake he desires to provoke no excess quarrels. No drama. Only meet his goal and get the bloody fuck out, prudently. 

John’s a soldier, once and always. A Military Man, with caps on, he’s not one for partaking puddings on Fridays and _not_ changing his working kit out unnecessarily. If he rises on what seems a ‘good’ day and those are rare enough to begin with, he’ll keep his same jumper going three days, his belt and accessories five. Clean trousers, yes, and socks too, but his underthings—he rinses them out and drapes them over the shower rail, wears them again the next morning. Somewhere, somehow, Sherlock’s reaping the bennies of repetition and John’s alright for a little while, with that. Really, he’s alright. 

Really. 

Mrs Hudson’s got her herbal soothers to contribute (and maybe she’s the very picture of a village dame and maybe not, but she’s _their_ Mrs Hudson all the same, the not-housekeeper). John sips tisanes and tonics in her company, teas by the cupful and the occasional sherry toasts to this niece’s new baby and that nephew’s new promotion and his own good luck in staying sane and he smiles. Smiles, because Mrs Hudson knows what he believes in and believes in it _with him_. 

Sherlock can’t help fiddling, fiddling, fiddling. His fingers move despite him, his hands touch out the rhythms. Music in his head, his chest—it rings. He hums under his breath as he watches: _Greensleeves_. _We’ll Meet Again,_ _Johnny B Good_ , _My Friend John_ …and the not-to-be-deleted notes rise clear as oxygen above the polluted circles he snakes through unmarked, undermining. 

And if John happens to hear Radio One playing the same song over and over through the hours of a lonely New Year’s—some melody-maker warbling ‘Auld Lang Syne’—then that’s hardly a coincidence, is it? 

  
  



End file.
